And at nine oh three, the empire Grant had built began to bleed.
The first notification appeared on Voss’s phone while she stood beside my hospital bed.
She read it, and her brows lifted.
“What is Mercer Children’s Foundation?”
“A charity,” I said. “Technically.”
“What does it actually do?”
“Launders money.”
At nine seven, a business reporter in New York called the police department asking whether Grant Mercer had been arrested.
At nine twelve, a federal agent called Detective Voss directly.
At nine twenty, Grant’s lawyer arrived at the hospital demanding access to me.
At nine thirty-one, hospital security removed him.
By noon, Grant’s mugshot was online.
Not the polished man from magazine covers. Not the philanthropist in navy suits holding oversized checks beside smiling children. Not the golden heir who gave speeches about discipline, family, and civic duty.
This Grant had a red mark on his cheek from where he had struck the doorframe while resisting arrest. His hair was messy. His eyes were wide with the disbelief of a man who had never imagined consequences could enter the room without knocking.
